


Impulse

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Real Life Fairytale [1]
Category: Kim Possible (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon mixed with AU, F/M, Forbidden Love, Soulmates (of a strange sort), Teen Hero, Villain/Hero Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The drive, Bates.” He says. “The drive, the power, the desire.  She has the warrior’s spirit.  The talent of which few dare dream, let alone possess.  She has it.  I’ve seen it.  It is underused, hidden, but it is there.”</p>
<p>“My Lord—”</p>
<p>“I can bring it out of her.” He declares, fingers curling inward against the wall.  The concrete is unforgiving, rough, painful against his skin.  He barely feels it. “I can set her free.  I will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> The first installment of a new series, inspired by "Kim Possible," the Disney Channel TV series. Sometime after becoming a fan of the show, I became fascinated with a very non-canon pairing, the show's heroine and one of her most notable foes, Lord Monkey Fist, and the story ideas just started coming. Please enjoy - but be respectful if you don't support this pairing. Thank you. :)

The first time he sees her face, it is that of a child. An extraordinary child, yes; one placed on a pedestal by the world she serves and protects, whose gratitude she accepts with humble eyes and innocent smiles in the face of gushing adorations and exalted thanks. He watches her through the television screen and reads about her in the paper, a safe distance, a world apart, and takes in the shy curve of her lips, the way she tucks her hands behind her back, lifts her shoulders in a delicate shrug, and bows her head in response to each “Thank you, Miss Possible,” and “That was incredible, Miss Possible,” and “You can do _anything_ , Miss Possible.” 

He sees a child, her image soft and gentle on his television screen and across the morning paper. But he also sees talent, and trusting naivety, and innocent eyes that will not see beyond the carefully-cultured mask he wears, and a heart that will be eager to please. He sees a willing, albeit unaware, accomplice, and she will be the stepping stone that takes him one step closer to his goal. To his destiny.

He calls, and she answers. In a matter of days, his plan quickly and perfectly falls into place. _It won’t be long now_ , he knows. And he smiles. _Soon. Very soon._

When they finally meet, two strangers with their respective companions at their sides, he feels a strange, obscure, but very real sense of betrayal. He feels resentment towards the media, towards the television screen, towards the black and white ink of the newspaper. They have lied to him. They have surrounded her in innocent, rose-colored tones, and made her a child. They have lied. They always lie, _everyone lies_ , but this is a greater betrayal than before. He has known how to handle turncoats in the past, expected their deception, but this time he is unprepared.

The stranger before him is not a child. She wears a child’s face, has a child’s delicate smile and a child’s trusting heart, but she is not a child. Her eyes reveal the truth. Her eyes declare her a woman. Her eyes are the window to her soul, and when his eyes meet hers beneath the Cambodian trees, his soul finds hers. And his soul recognizes hers.

It startles him. It confuses him. It upsets and concerns and frustrates and angers him. _No._ This is not how it is meant to be. She is to be the pawn, the unsuspecting tool, the compliant means to his end. She is to remain a stranger, a person he barely knows and will never meet again in his life. But she isn’t. 

His soul is more a traitor than anything or anyone else. His soul pulls him closer, hungering for nearness when his better judgment calls for distance. His mind and soul engage in a silent, vicious battle, both determined to be the victor. His mind, his cold logic, brings him three steps away, and then his ears catch the sound of her voice, defending him against the paranoid— _albeit warranted_ —ramblings of her companion, and quickly he is at her side again. His eyes are cold, unmoved by the boy’s hasty attempt at cordiality, and his soul wins the battle, stealing his voice and claiming her for himself. He will speak only with her. This boy is an interference, and an extremely aggravating one at that.

When she asks him about the drawing, about the story behind legends, his heart falters in its rhythm. He hears the curiosity in her voice, watches the way she draws closer to him to point at the parchment in his hands, feels her warmth as their proximity grows. He becomes excited, and in the next breath forces himself to calm. He must denounce his life’s mission, his every-waking thought, his long-sought dream, as utter nonsense. Because her little friend is only a short distance away, chattering and quaking like a mouse facing down a rattlesnake, all at the mere mention of the simian race. _Ridiculous. Childish._ And the boy is the reason he must lie, when he wants to speak the truth. He wants to reveal his passion to her, feed her hungering mind with all the knowledge she could ever want, because he feels, _impossibly but deeply_ , confident that she would understand. She would understand and appreciate and reciprocate. She shares his curious mind, his desire to know and know everything, to explore the unknown and mysterious and find the truth beneath legends and rumors. He knows it. He knows.

But he must lie. And so he does. _Utter nonsense_ , he calls it, and the smile he gives her is a mask. It hides his disappointment, his frustration and self-loathing at this façade. But he wears it well, and if she suspects anything, she doesn’t say it.

When he sends her into the temple, he feels his blood begin to churn and race within his veins. The fact that she enters alone, unaccompanied by her spineless friend, sends it rushing hard and fast to his brain. He has heard stories, tales of the primitive but still very intact and very lethal traps which lie within. For a moment, a short and fleeting breath of time, he thinks to follow her. To see her in action, to see how much truth there is behind the legend of _the girl who can do anything_. To have her at his side and be at hers while they explore and battle and find the treasure he seeks. But he cannot, because that insipid little boy is there, calling after her. Standing in his way.

He wants to push him aside, to surrender to the animal and sacrifice the man, but it isn’t time. _Not yet._ And so he simply stands in place, and he waits.

When she emerges, clutching his prize, he momentarily loses the ability to breathe, to think, to force his heart to continue beating. Her hair has fallen free of its earlier confines, and fiery strands fall unchecked down her back, around her face, tumbling over her shoulders. There is a thin sheen of perspiration along her cheeks, her neck, and across the modest expanse of stomach she has left exposed. There are a few small scratches along her exposed forearms, one cut at her left side, and a barely-visible bruise forming below her jaw. And yet she stands victorious, and makes quick strides to him, extending the prize without pause or hesitation.

The words he speaks are more lies, promising her gratitude from the museum when he knows they will never see this statue, but the thanks in his voice and on his tongue are honest. He has tested her, and she passed. And he feels, once again, the desire to tell her the truth. To share all his knowledge and understanding of the power held within this item, once it is brought together with its companions. But he cannot. They are not alone, and he trusts no one else with this knowledge, because no one else has _her_ soul.

As he lies awake, staring up at the soft fabric panels of the tent, he tells himself this is over. Come tomorrow morning, she will be returned to her world and he will withdraw to his. He will never see her again and she will likely not think of him again. She is young, and she is famous, and she is a lovely creature with, surely, many a young man clamoring for her attention. She will not think of him, and so he must not think of her.

He closes his eyes, releases a slow breath, and then prepares for the next phase of the plan. This will make their separation easier, more permanent. It is unfortunate, but it is necessary.

But she surprises him. She takes the game and makes it her own. And once again, he is unprepared.

He knows she does not recognize him beneath the cover of black cloth and a ninja’s guise, when he emerges holding the statue in hand; her eyes do not widen and she does not speak his name. Instead, her eyes narrow, her gaze hardens, and her body becomes rigid. She assumes a warrior’s stance in response to his, and when he strikes, she returns it. She does not waver, does not pause, does not falter. She acts. She fights.

For the next few minutes, short as they are, he forgets about the statue, about his plans, about his goals, because all that matters is her and him, locked in combat beneath the jungle trees and the starless skies. He watches as her body twists and moves, writhes and shifts. He watches as her eyes burn in embers from the campfire. He watches her hair whip across her face and neck and never once cause her to pause or break concentration. With the right movement, with the right shift and catch of the wind in the strands, her fiery mane is fire of its own.

His mind falters, just for a moment, when she locks her arm to his and her face nears his. She is very close, too close, _so close_ , unaware of who he is, of _what_ he is, but he could change that. He could show her his true face, end the lies, and make everything so very real.

But not yet. _Not now._

***

He doesn’t expect to see her again. He doesn’t expect she will reappear in his life. He thinks, perhaps, he will continue watching the television and reading the newspaper, because even though they lie, at least they will let him see her face and hear her voice, and he will let himself think about the what if, until his sanity breaks or his rational mind forces him to stop such foolishness. Whichever comes first.

But then Bates enters, announcing her presence, and her phobic little tag-along, and for a moment he knows a fraction of the happiness and excitement from the jungle. In the next moment, it is gone, because he looks at her face and into her eyes and finds them blank. Empty. Hollow. And her voice is not hers; too mechanical, and her words are too rehearsed. Whatever this…this _thing_ is, it’s not her.

The disappointment is crushing. The anger is liberating. He has nothing to fear in this moment. It is not her. _It is not her._ And he will not be confined any longer. He will not hide any longer. He is not the weak soul he once was, in a different time, in a different world. He is free. He is alive.

_I am Monkey Fist._

***

The prison cell is cold, grey concrete on three walls, iron bars on the fourth. The mattress upon which he sits is thin, overly-used, and practically begging to be put out of its misery. There is a slight draft coming through the bars, but he barely feels it. There is shouting down the hall and conversations being held on either side of him, but he barely hears it. His mind is spinning, scheming, calculating. His heart is racing, and his blood burns hot within his veins. And through it all, only one thought appears. Only one name echoes in his mind. Only one voice is heard in his ears.

“My Lord?”

Bates has been standing there for some time, he knows. Bates has called out to him, several times, and has been ignored. This time, he will be answered. This time, he will be acknowledged. Not for him, but because the excitement pumping through his veins is too great and must be shared before he bursts.

“She has it.” He whispers, staring at the concrete wall. His voice is low, but he feels alive. He feels the tingle of his elated nerves creeping up and down his spine, urging movement. He complies, stands, and walks to the far wall. He places his hands upon its cold surface, presses hard. “She has it, Bates.”

“She….she has what, my Lord?” his valet sounds uncertain, cautious, like he’s approaching a caged animal. A wounded animal.

He is caged. He is wounded. But he is not defeated. He is not broken. _Never broken._

“The drive, Bates.” He continues, voice raising just slightly. Speaking this simple truth aloud excites him, encourages him, and drives his mind onward, plotting and scheming his next move. “The drive, the power, the desire. She has the warrior’s spirit. The talent of which few dare dream, let alone possess. She has it. I’ve seen it. It is underused, hidden, but it is there.”

“My Lord—”

“I can bring it out of her.” He declares, fingers curling inward against the wall. The concrete is unforgiving, rough, painful against his skin. He barely feels it. “I can set her free. I will.”

“My Lord,” Bates begins again, voice trembling, “My Lord…Miss Possible may not…may not be as…receptive to you the next time. She knows everything now. She knows the truth.”

_She knows I lied to her. Used her._ He is unsurprised, but it changes nothing. Life is not made of sugar-coated dreams and perfect fairytales. Life is cold, even cruel, and full of twists and turns and enemies who become friends and friends who become enemies. He knows this, and now she knows too. She has been given the first glimpse into his world, his life, and even if she denies it—and she will, because he would expect nothing less from her; he denied it once too, long ago—she will understand. He knows she will.

“Good.” He breaths, slowly turning to face his valet, his one remaining connection to the old world and his old life. There must be something in his eyes, something written across his face, something unpleasant and unsettling because Bates takes a step back, grey eyes wide and uncertain.

He merely smiles. “Good.” He repeats, and then he stares at the wall once again. Let her know. _Let her know._

***

“What are you doing here?”

He speaks the question, but it is rhetorical. Wherever he is, she will be there with him. Even if it is without her complete awareness or consent, she will be there. And he welcomes her presence with open arms. It has been months. Eight months, to be exact. Eight months trapped within grey walls, mind plotting and waiting with great patience and anticipation for this moment. In his mind, he has developed and imagined every last detail of their reunion. And she doesn’t disappoint him. Even with her absent-minded companion disrupting the hope for privacy, for solitude with her and her alone, she doesn’t disappoint. She forgets her friend is there, and so he will ignore the intrusive presence and focus on her. Only her. _Always her._

In the breath that passes before her response comes, he looks over her. And he thinks, perhaps, she is thinner than the last time they met. He knows he is. It is an unfortunate consequence of fasting, lest he have poisoned himself with prison food. He wonders why she has lost weight. Fears the answer. Is it the stress of being a young role model, of taking the weight of the world upon her shoulders, perhaps even one of those terrible diseases which has claimed many a young woman her age?

“To stop you.” She answers, without pause, without fear. She steps forward, and her eyes harden. He barely contains the glee in his voice, the thrilling excitement across his face, the relief that relaxes his shoulders. She is fine. The weight loss is meaningless; he can see as much now. She has not been ravaged by a psychological ailment or the burdens she bears. She is fine. This is the warrior. This is the creature he has remembered and fantasized many a night. _Every night._

This time, he is not alone. He directs his ninjas to attack the boy, drive him away from this place and get him away from her. He was prepared this time. He will not have the imbecile ruin this moment. He has been waiting too long.

She doesn’t have time to look after the boy, to try and help him, or even shout helpful advice as the little brat runs screaming down the hall. He is quicker, and she has no choice but to respond. And respond she does, lunging and twisting all in one beautiful, fluid motion, attacking and dodging, striking and blocking. Fire, blazing and coiling throughout the air. Fire burning in her eyes, dancing across the strands of hair. She is an inferno. A beautiful blaze trapped within a pretty glass lantern, imprisoned within a cage. 

He knows her pain, her suffering. He also knows she is not yet aware of it, of how much she truly suffers and is being confined. He did not realize it for many years. _Too many._

The boy screams, the sound echoing through the metal corridor. Her head turns, eyes seeking out the source, and he hears the intake of breath, the prelude to her calling out for the boy and promising her help. He won’t allow it. Not now. He’s waited so long. _Too long._ He won’t let her escape so easily.

Her distraction is his opportunity. She never sees the next blow coming, until his arm has made direct contact with her lower stomach and she’s doubled over in pain. The next blow is to her side, and she is thrown unceremoniously into the nearby closet. She skids along the floor and hits the far wall with a distinct _thud_. Her jaw clenches, tight with the pain, but her eyes have lost no fire. If anything, he notes with satisfaction, they burn brighter, now tinged with anger.

In the time it takes her to stand upright, fighting back the pain he knows must be throbbing throughout her core and upper body, he has closed and locked the door behind him. It won’t hold for long, unfortunately, but it will be enough.

Her eyes narrow at him, and he can almost see her mind calculating, wondering, and trying to read him. He knows she won’t find the answers she seeks; he is determined to be the victor in this game. _At least for now._ There will be another time, another duel, another round, and the next time, it very well could be her standing triumphant. He must not waste any chance for success while it is within his grasp.

“What do you want?” she demands, her voice barely an angry hiss. He fights down a shiver at the sound. The sound of her rage is like an ember crackling to life within the hearth, sparking forth and setting all around it ablaze.

_You_ , he thinks but doesn’t say, and he doesn’t let the answer show on his face or in his eyes. He does want her, but not like this. Not when she is still confined, restrained, a willing prisoner. He wants her free, unshackled, released from her cage. And that, he reluctantly admits, will not be now. Not for some time. She must _want_ freedom. He can open the door and beckon her to him, but she must take it with both hands. Else, it is a futile attempt, and he will lose her forever.

And failure is unacceptable.

“What do you think I want, Kimberly?” he asks, voice low and quiet, and the sound is disconcerting to her. He sees it in the tight frown across her lips, in the way she curls fingers inward and makes a fist against her thigh. She can’t read him, and it angers her. He feels a bitter sense of contentment, knowing this. Now she knows how he felt that night, to have looked into her eyes and in the next moment have had to swallow the fact that it wasn’t her. Disappointment is a cruel mistress, and a relentless opponent.

For a long moment, she stays silent. He holds her glare and keeps his eyes steady, calm, and neutral. He will not betray the things she makes him feel, will not show what she does to him even if it is without her full knowledge and without his full consent. He was, once, happy living a hollow life, an emotionless existence, but no longer. She doesn’t allow it. She creeps into his thoughts, slips beneath his skin, emerges herself in his veins and mingles with his blood. Sometimes he thinks she will be the catalyst that destroys him.

“Power.” She finally whispers, “Control. World domination.”

He smirks and steps forward. “Have I fallen so low in your eyes that you lump me in with the rest of your little foes?” he asks, matching her tone. “That you consider me a low-level dog clamoring for the finest bed and best crumbs to lick from the floor?”

His words hit her, briefly unnerve her, but when she speaks again, her tone is cold, arctic with vehemence and resentment. “Why should I think anything else?” she continues, “Everything you ever told me was a lie. _You_ are a lie.”

_The man you met was._ He thinks to correct her, but doesn’t. He did tell her lies. Fed them to her like a parent feeding a newborn babe. And she accepted them. But now she knows what they were, knows the truth, and has turned her back on the poison he gave her. She has cleansed her system, and is determined to never allow his words to affect her again.

He was the same way, once. When a stranger appeared in his life, in his perfectly-ordered world, and accused him of being a mindless puppet, he responded with anger. Denounced the words as lies and the stranger as a liar. He denied the very thought and wrapped himself up once more in the safety of his life.

But those words were a seed. And a seed needs only a little water, a little encouragement, a little crack in the solid build of earth, and it will grow. Grow, spread, fester.

He steps closer, closer, and she has no place to run or hide. Only the wall meets her back, without escape, and she knows it. Her eyes widen as he closes the distance between them, then narrow once again. She is defiant to the end. Resilient. She will not give in so easily, not to him, not to anyone.

His mouth hovers over her ear, but he takes care to ensure distance between them. No part of his body brushes hers; his hands do not reach for her and fasten her in place. He simply lingers near, and she stands rigid before him, throat tight as she fights to not breathe.

“As are you, Kimberly.” He breathes. “As are you.”

He leaves her that way, frozen in place, hands clenched against the wall and against her leg, head tilted back against the hard surface, eyes closed. He leaves her, summons his companions, and disappears. And he quietly waits for the next time, because there will be a next time, and he’s sure by then, the seed will have begun to take its roots.

***

The next time, the boy is chased once again, but she does not turn. She does not cry out for him. She does not go to his aid. She keeps her eyes on him, only him, and steps forward with cold conviction in her step and in her eyes. 

“I rest my case,” she says quietly, looking from him to the emerald amulet in his hand, “Power, control, domination. That’s all you want. That’s all that matters to you.”

He doesn’t respond with the smirk he wore the last time, when she threw similar accusations at him. Instead, he weighs the pendant thoughtfully within his palm. It’s lighter than he would have thought, but perhaps that is the amusing irony of it. Of it, and its power, and its promises. And its swift retribution.

“Do you know the history here, Kimberly?” he inquires, as though he’s asking her about the weather. “The stories, the myths, the legends, all behind this little pendant?”

She considers him in silence, and then takes another step forward, crosses her arms, and tilts her head with a quirk of the brow. “Regale me.”

Her tone is insolent, but there is no mistaking the curiosity of her voice. She knows better than to question him, like a student to a teacher, but she’s willing to toe the line and draw closer to him. It is almost a perfect replication of their first meeting, when she was innocent to his lies and manipulations, but not quite. Now, the masks are off, at least for him, and lies have been exposed and realized and so on. Yet he still can be the teacher and she can still be the student. She wants to know. It is her way. And there is nothing to dampen her curiosity.

“The Amulet of the Monkey King,” he says, resting idly against the now-empty display case, keeping the pendant out where both of them can look upon it, “The stories say its power is unrivaled. Once you have claimed it for your own, once you wear it upon your breast, you will be unstoppable. All because of a promise made by its forger, once a great and noble king who made a deal with unknown forces, seeking the power to make his kingdom the greatest of all, and him the most feared entity in the world.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees her step closer. “A deal made from greed.” She declares, but quietly.

He nods, “Yes. And it would seem these _unknown forces_ knew exactly what ugliness existed within his heart, because they granted his request. But they failed to mention their price.” His mouth twists, an unamused smirk, as he considers the way light dances across the emerald surface. “The king believed he had obtained the greatest gift from the powers that be, all without a cost. But he was wrong.”

Another three steps closer; he can see the frown growing, deepening between her eyebrows. “What was the price?”

The smirk grows, and he finally turns to face her. “His humanity.”

There is no further explanation needed; he can see as much in her eyes, across her face. She is so very intelligent, brilliant and remarkable. Her mind makes connections and produces conclusions five minutes before anyone else. She looks down at the amulet, then at his face again. “Are you so desperate to become something else entirely?” she whispers, tone low, bitter, and accusing. “Do you despise yourself that much?”

“Despise?” he echoes, turning his body and coming to rest mere inches from her. “A harsh word, Kimberly. So much so, in fact…that it makes me wonder about your self-perception.”

“Don’t turn this around on me.” She growls. “This is not about me.”

“Oh, but it is.” He corrects her this time. The game is only interesting insofar as the players can change it up once in a while. If a duel becomes predictable, it loses intrigue, and there is no need to engage the opponent. It might as well be a conversation. And while they are indeed carrying on a conversation, it is so much more than meaningless chatter. It is a duel of words and wit, a chess game of sorts.

He sees the surprise on her face, in her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that answer, and she wasn’t expecting him to step even closer. She instinctively takes one step back, and he takes two forward. She won’t escape him so easily.

“It’s always about you, Kimberly.” He continues, voice low; he slowly encircles her, pace slow and deliberate, and she remains motionless, like a prey trapped by the tiger who may either devour her or destroy her. “Surely you realize that? The worldwide symbol of perfection, the model for girls far and wide, the girl who can do _anything_.”

Her stance grows rigid, and her fingers clench at her sides. Were she not wearing gloves, there would be blood drawn from her nails biting into flesh. “They’ve set you upon a pedestal, Kimberly. But it’s a very, very high pedestal. And it’s a very, _very_ long way down.”

Slowly, her head turns so her eyes meet his. Green irises are cold, like grass stalks frozen in winter, and her voice is no warmer. “That’s _your_ life.” She returns. “Not mine. You will _not_ force the emptiness that is your life on me. You will not make us the same. We’re not.”

_Empty_ …if only his life _were_ still empty. It would make things so much easier, would it not?

“Now,” she continues, facing him fully, “give me the amulet.”

He holds her gaze, mouth twisting into something that’s not quite a smile, and not quite a frown, but some unidentified expression in between. “You want it?” he asks, leaning closer. “Take it.”

His leg connects with her waist, sending her back a few feet. She wavers, twists, and lunges. He evades, but she is undeterred. She strikes, this time without waver or pause. Even the blows he deals in return don’t slow her down. She’s fighting with emotion this time. The icy exterior she’d worn only moments ago is giving way to her anger, her confusion, her uncertainty. There is no rhyme or reason to her movements this time. She is desperate, though for what, he doesn’t know. He suspects, but doesn’t know for certain.

Then, yet again, she surprises him.

Before he can prepare for, or even consider such a movement, she lunges for him, like a wrestler to his opponent, and throws her full body weight against him. They land some distance away from the display, and he releases a sharp grunt as his shoulder blades meet the unyielding glass of another display case. It cracks, but doesn’t break. _Thankfully._

Her hands pin him, hard, and her hair has spilled over her shoulders and into her eyes. Emerald green framed in fire. For a moment, it distracts him, but in the next moment he blinks and refocuses. “You disappoint me, Kimberly. That was…quite graceless. I expected better.”

“Fortunately,” she retorts, “I don’t care what you think. So long as it gets the job done.”

Ah, so _that’s_ the name of game, is it? He raises both eyebrows, considering her for a short time. “I see.” He says at length. “Well then, shall I show you what else _gets the job done_ , as you so eloquently say?”

Her mouth opens, and he’s sure a well-phrased retort is on the tip of her tongue. But he’s no longer in the mood for verbal jabs and the exchange of wits. She has placed herself far closer to him than before, erased all distance between them, and his patience is rapidly fraying. There is only so much temptation a man can be expected to take, and he is still—for better or worse— _a man_.

She tenses when his mouth meets hers, but no physical attack follows, and she has not maintained enough balance to stop him from switching their positions. He is careful, at least, to not be brutal in the process of pressing her down to the floor, his hands now free to clasp her wrists and rest them on either side of her head, never breaking the contact between their lips. Her fists clench within his hold, and she shifts a bit, trying to free herself. He doesn’t let her.

Then, eventually, after what seems nearly an eternity, he feels the tension ebb away, and the tight line which has been her mouth against his relaxes. Relaxes, and suddenly she begin to move against him. Her lips are no longer the victim of an unwanted gesture, but the other party in a desired embrace. Her head tilts, just enough to find a new angle, and the kiss continues without pause or sever. After a moment of consideration, he releases her hands and relocates his into her hair. Red strands slide like silk between his fingers, warm and cool all at once, like fire and ice. Her kiss is what he could have expected and even more than he fantasized: unyielding, fierce, and desiring. Even now, she engages him in combat. Not quite brutal, not gentle, but somewhere in between. Some place only they understand. Some place only they know.

Her fingers curl down into his clothing, fisting in black fabric and tugging him closer. One hand leaves her hair and finds a new placement on her lower back. She responds with the scrape of nails down his chest, felt even through cloth barriers. His canines catch her lower lip, pricking but not quite biting, and she responds in kind. Matches him. Finally, plays his equal.

It’s enough, and yet it’s not enough. _Never enough._ She responds to him because he initiated the gesture, but it was not given of her own free will. She is still restrained. She still clings to the foundations of her world, because they are safe. She walks the edge, but she will not step over it, because there is no guarantee of what is waiting below. Perhaps there is a safety net. Perhaps there is nothing. Perhaps there is someone waiting for her. _Might be, could be_ , but never _is_. Never a guarantee or a promise.

He breaks the embrace, reluctantly, but it must be done. He must resume control before he loses himself completely. And he would, because she was granting him the closeness he’s sought since the first moment they met. But he will not take what it is he most wants. She must give it to him. It must be with her consent and her desire, not just his. He has fallen from the refined man he once was, but he has not sunk so low as to become little better than a common thief, especially when it would be something far more precious and sacred that he would steal.

Her eyes open, though he’s not completely sure they were ever fully closed, and she stares at him for a long, silent moment. Her hair is mussed and in disarray around her face and shoulders, and her eyes smolder with many emotions, some named and some unknown. But prominent amongst them all, _desire_. He knows she would not deny him, but when the spell would be broken and her senses return to her, she would only know regret. Even shame, disgust, and self-loathing. Those are emotions with which he is quite familiar, but they have no place in his life now. And he will _not_ allow them to tarnish whatever it is between them. Whatever this fragile, tenuous thread which has now been woven between his soul and hers is, it will not be severed so quickly.

“I will see you again, Kimberly.”


End file.
